Dad knows you loved Raffe.
And it’s not as though Dad has… you know… killed Raffe. Or anything. Dad would never do that to someone you love.
But Raffe had to move, you see. Raffe lives on a very nice farm out in the countryside now. It’s better there. Plastic giraffes love farms.
And I know you’ll wonder why. But your mother became… allergic, you see. You’ll have to take it up with her.
Can we go back to bed now? Please?
Because, you know, it’s not that I don’t love spending this amount of quality time with you. Please understand that. I just kind of wish a little more of the quality was saved for a time of day when there’s something good on TV. And it’s not that I long for the time before you were born. Absolutely not! I’m just saying that, you know, I slept more back then. And I like sleeping. I’m good at it. I like sleep and sleep likes me. When your mother and I first met, one of our favorite things was to wake up on a Sunday morning, look at one another, crawl back under the covers, and doze off again. Sometimes, I would get up and make coffee just so I could go back to bed and wake up in an apartment that smelled of freshly brewed coffee.
Good times.
And then one morning, there you were, and one morning a year or so later, you learned to climb out of your crib and woke me up by wrapping your hands around my wrist and hitting me in the face with my own watch. Like the sixth-graders did when I first started middle school. “Ahahaha! Why are you hitting yourself? Look at Fredrik hitting himself! Harhar! Why are you hitting yourself?” That’s what you do, you little bully. Why do you do that? What’s your problem?
And then I have to get up and play with your train set or whichever piece of crap toy you’ve decided absolutely can’t wait until morning. And it’s just as well to get it over and done with, because you won’t give in. It’s like living with a tiny, tiny telemarketer. And I know I’m supposed to be the fun-loving great dad who plays on your level and still has a childish side and all that. But seriously. You’re absolutely useless at playing with the train set. I’m not saying that to destroy your self-confidence or anything, it’s just a bit of objective, constructive criticism. You stink at playing with trains. Someone has to tell you.
First of all, you’re driving the train in the wrong direction. Where’s the realism in that? And if we’re not basing this game on reality, then why even play with a train? If we’re just going to make stuff up and play without any borders of imagination, might we not just as well go the whole way with it? Then I want trolls and giants and unicorns that shoot at the trolls with golden slingshots out of their butts! But no, you’re all “I’m wild and crazy, I’m driving the train BACKWARD!”
Seriously.
If we’re playing trains, we’re playing trains. And there’s a right way and a wrong way. That’s all I’m saying. So put the horse back in the dining car. (Yes, I know that your mother says that’s not right. But honestly, what kind of car would you have a horse in if it’s not in the dining car?) And stop looking so angry. The train is standing still in the tunnel right now because there’s a signaling failure. “Technical problems.” You’re just going to have to accept that. And then the train needs to proceed to the next station incredibly, incredibly slowly because there are leaves on the tracks, you see. But if you like, I can be the train company and you can be the government department responsible for maintaining the infrastructure, and we can play that we’re blaming one another in the media after some passengers froze to death in the tunnel. It’ll be fun!
You see? This is working out great. We’re bonding here, you and I.
Well, until you start pulling all the people out of the train and running around trying to shove them into your toy cars, that is. Have you never heard of climate change? I swear, sometimes it’s like you don’t give a damn about your environmental footprint at all! And then I have to put all the people back in the train later on, and you’ve lost all their luggage, and it’ll be a nightmare of lawsuits! Where are you going?
What now? Are you angry?
Wait! Is this because you didn’t understand my pop culture references when I sang Soul Asylum?
Fine! All right, then! It’s three forty-five in the morning and Dad hasn’t slept since you were born, but of course y-o-u are the real victim here! Is that it? If those vampires from Twilight had taken a single look at Dad right now, they would have mumbled, “Don’t drink that one’s blood, Edward, it looks sick.” But let’s feel sorry for you, shall we?
Fine. No more trains. Then can we go to bed?
Please?
No but seriously, now.
Pretty please?
I don’t think you realize how much Dad is looking forward to you being old enough to understand the monetary system, so Dad can give you a hundred bucks for keeping quiet and letting Dad sleep. Dad can’t do this anymore. Dad still doesn’t know if your preschool teacher is going to report him to the police for asking at what age, roughly, she thought it was reasonable to start shooting kids with tranquilizer darts. People talk about “scientific sleeping methods for babies,” but we’re way past that here. Dad is reading a very nice book about how wildlife hunters in Australia take down freshwater crocodiles, you see.
And you know, another thing: I don’t really trust your preschool teacher. She’s a strange one. I once saw her go into a room with sixteen two-year-olds and she looked at all of you and said, “Sleep.” And then you SLEPT! Like she was in the frikkin’ X-Men!
Not cool, ma’am. Not cool.
Wait, where are you going now? We’re going to bed! No, don’t grab the toy cars now, because Dad will cry. “Have kids,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. Yeah, fun like trying to calm down a flock of panic-stricken antelopes using a stroboscope. Why do children hate sleeping? Why? Do you know I read in a magazine that children stay awake with the parent they like most, in order to keep them in the room for as long as possible? I would have gone to the office of that magazine and punched the writer of that article straight in the face if I wasn’t so EXHAUSTED, all right?
Because we both know you like your mother most. I do too. She’s the best thing to ever happen to either of us. And that’s actually the biggest reason you need to be quiet.
Because I can take this, the fact that you and I are up all night. Honestly. I can take the scorching-hot bottles of formula and the goddamn plastic giraffes and the fact that we apparently HAVE to line up all the stuffed animals in exact size order before even considering bedtime. I get a bit sleep deprived, so I get migraines and forget things and park in the wrong space in the garage and stand in the stairwell once in a while swearing at the incompetent bastards who installed the locks in our buildings until the neighbor opens the door and wonders why I’m trying to break into their apartment. And sometimes I get the formula and the protein shakes mixed up. And ONCE when you were taking a nap, I got the bedroom door and the balcony door mixed up and put you to bed on the outdoor furniture instead. But I got you in after fifteen minutes and it was only November and you were mostly fine and no one will ever know or call social services or anything as long as I never write any of this down in a book.
I can take it. I don’t have to sleep. I just don’t want you to wake your mother. Agreed?
Because… honestly? This is one of the very few concrete things I can actually do for you and for her. Yeah, I know that sounds pathetic. But she does so much more than me. With our lives. With you. With us. And, at the very least, I want to be able to give her this in return.
She’s just endlessly better at being a parent than I am. She understands exactly what you mean when you’re standing in the hallway shouting and rambling incomprehensibly like a drunk Ewok. She knows what kind of clothes you should wear when it’s cold out. She keeps track of papers from the doctor and makes sure we have vitamins and leans forward and kisses my neck long before I even realize myself how much I need her to do that precisely right then. There are so many fantastic sides of her that you ha
ven’t even gotten to know yet. That you aren’t old enough to understand. And, oh, how you’re going to love getting to know her. Her nooks and crannies and small secret corners and winding corridors and creaking closet doors. The way she lives every single feeling in her body to eternity and back.
The way she loves us: all in.
She might scream at us once in a while when we sit on the new sofa without pants on or when we leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. When we spill mayonnaise on the carpet and drop ice cream into her handbag. But your mother would stand in front of a pack of wolves for you and for me. It’s an incomprehensible blessing to get to be her boys. We need to make sure we deserve it. Every single day.
Because when you’re with her, it’s always Sunday morning.
And the ONE thing in life I’m better at than she is is handling a lack of sleep. I park in the wrong space when I’m tired, but she drives to the wrong job when she is. When I’ve had a rough night she finds the cheese in the freezer, but when she’s had a rough night I find the fridge in the basement. She’s better at absolutely everything else, but just after you were born we noticed that this was one area where I was more high functioning than she was. The only one.
So, we need to give her this, you and I. For all the things she does for us every day, we need to give her this. We need to let her sleep at night so she can be all our Sunday mornings when she wakes up.
I hope you get that.
That’s why we’re sitting here watching cartoons and playing with your train set. Again. And Dad knows that Dad is an ass sometimes but Dad is just… tired. But Dad is trying. Really trying. Because Dad loves you. And yes, Dad is sorry for that thing with Raffe. Dad knows you loved Raffe. And Dad LOVES you. But Raffe is in a better place now. Or at least Dad is in a better place, because Raffe is in another place. Because there are limits, you know?
At three forty-five in the morning, there are limits.
I really want to be good at this. I just really want to be the kind of dad who can put his child to sleep. I want to be the good kind of dad. I don’t want to fail you.
And at three forty-six, when you fall asleep with your little head heavy on my arm and that red toy engine in your hand, that’s why I’m lying awake here, staring at you.
Sometimes, when I was quite small, your grandpa and I would go out in the car together. Round, round, round we would drive. I don’t really know where we were going. Things needed picking up. Things needed dropping off. We never said all that much. We probably didn’t even talk much at all when I was small, your grandpa and I. And when I got older, I used to think those car trips must have been incredibly boring. We just sat there next to one another in silence and drove, you know?
It was not until after you were born that I realized those were probably some of the very best moments of my childhood, for both me and your grandpa. Because they were ours.
And when you’re all grown up, I guess it’ll be the memory of nights like this that I’ll hold most dear. I won’t remember the headaches and the swearing then. I’ll remember the trains. I’ll remember when you worked out how to open the freezer and sat inside your play tent throwing ice cubes at me when I tried to get you into bed. How you made me laugh so hard that my very bones sang when you wanted me to chase you, and we ran through the entire apartment and ended up with you hiding inside a suitcase in the wardrobe having no idea how to get back out again. And then, when I set you free, you dropped an ice cube inside my T-shirt for the very first time. Your expression then. That laugh. That’s what I’ll remember. Those hours were ours.
And Raffe.
The stuff you remember from a childhood.
They really are the strangest of things.
The art of choosing your work assignments
When your mother and I clean the apartment, I could take the easy, cowardly way out. You know that. I know that. But are we those kind of men, you and I? I say no.
So when it’s Apartment Cleaning Day, I roll up my pants, take off my shirt, and walk straight into the most difficult-to-clean room without fear. No hesitation.
Yes. You heard me. I choose the bathroom. Voluntarily. I fall on that grenade. Because that’s the kind of man I am. I’m not afraid.
And you should know that I don’t just “clean” that bathroom. Any clown from the street can “clean” a bathroom. But I elevate cleaning to an art, a craftsmanship that has been passed down from Backman man to Backman man for generations. A tender skill. Some might even say it’s a calling.
You don’t become a magnificent bathroom cleaner. You’re born one.
I start by removing any loose objects. Nothing that might shake loose under a high-pressure wash will be tolerated when my dictatorship over the kingdom the ignorant public call “the restroom” begins. Because a hero never “rests.”
After that, I scrub the tiles with three different types of detergents. I wipe the mirror until the mirror’s mirror image has its own damn mirror image. I rub the metal faucets with toothpaste until you can’t even look at them without permanently damaging your eyes. I scrub the shower so meticulously that the International Olympic Committee submits an application to hold figure skating competitions there.
I clean the inside of the cupboard beneath the sink. I scour the waste pipes. I scrape the rubber molding with a toothbrush. I make Mr. Clean look so weak he’ll turn himself in to the health department, do you hear me?
And once I’m done with all that, do you know what I do then? Do you? I do it all again. Just to make sure!
Once I’m finished with the shower, it’s so shiny that a flock of crows tries to steal it. And when I’m finally done, when it’s all over, when I step out of the bathroom like a soldier victorious from battle, when I return from the galactic showdown that is cleaning as done by not just a man but a Backman man, do you know what happens then? Then I find your mother in the living room. The woman I live and die for. And she looks at me and says:
“Oh, great! Just great! While you’ve been in the shower for three and a half hours, I’ve cleaned the entire apartment on my own! Do you know how unfair that is, Fredrik?!”
I’m not saying it’s the only reason I love her.
We’re waiting to order takeout in a restaurant and a group of middle-aged men in too-large blazers and Bluetooth headsets cuts in line.
And I get annoyed. And your mother tells me not to cause a scene. And I get even more annoyed.
And one of the middle-aged men turns around. Sees us. Meets your mother’s eye, now clearly aware that they’ve cut before us in line. And then he quickly turns back and pretends like nothing’s happened.
And I tap him on the shoulder. And he ignores me. And I want to hit him. And your mother forbids me.
And then she takes out her phone and goes out into the street and makes a call. And when she comes back in again someone shouts, “Number sixty-four!” from behind the counter. And your mother says, “Here!” and elbows past the entire line and takes the food and pays. And on the way back out, she looks each of the middle-aged men in the eye and smiles.
And I look at her and say, “Did you just call the restaurant to order food while we were standing in line?”
And she shrugs in surprise and says, “Doesn’t everyone?”
I’m not saying it’s the only reason I love her.
But it really doesn’t hurt.
I’m not saying you should love Dad more than Mom. Of course not. I’m just presenting the facts.
“Nothing with swords.” Nothing. With. Swords.
What kind of person sits down with her loving family on New Year’s Day to watch a movie and says something like that?
And can she be trusted?
Just ask yourself that.
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT WHY THAT FELICIA GIRL’S MOTHER HATES ME
Yes. I know you like that Felicia girl. But the fact is that Felicia’s mother happens to think your dad is a bit of an idiot, all right? So we probably won’t be playing with he
r so much in the near future.
You look like you want an explanation.
Well, first of all, let me just say that this whole parenting thing isn’t actually as damn easy as it looks. There’s a lot of new things to take into consideration here. Like sugar, for example. People who look perfectly together on the outside can throw tantrums like angry art students if you talk about kids and sugar, did you know that? I’m serious: that time I happened to joke about you and me being home alone around Christmas when you were eighteen months old, sharing a large pitcher of “Scandinavian Health Inspection” (that’s vodka and Dr Pepper; we’ll talk about that when you’re older). That William kid’s father was actually more furious that I’d insinuated I’d given you soda than that I’d insinuated I’d given you alcohol.
I suppose it probably didn’t help that I gave you your milk bottle in a brown paper bag over the next few days.
And it definitely didn’t help that your mother couldn’t stop herself from telling one of the other parents, “It’s for his dead homies,” when you spilled it. (So this is also largely her fault!)
But I’m not trying to pass the blame here. I’m not saying it was easier being a parent fifty years ago or anything like that. Only, I do think the rules of play were a bit clearer back then. It’s just hard to know what’s socially acceptable and not nowadays. When you were around six months old, for example, a nurse told us that we shouldn’t let you “sleep for too long in the afternoon, because there’s a risk of disruption to his circadian rhythms.” Apparently, it was then perfectly fine for your mother to say, “Well, it’s not just a case of ‘waking’ a child who seems to go into the cryosleep from Avatar whenever he closes his eyes.” The nurse even laughed at that.
Things My Son Needs to Know about the World Page 6
